It started when we touched,
a twitching, aching burn.
The freezing warmth
of our final embrace.

I traced your image
on my lawn,
my snow angel.
Then, removed my cast
of clothes
to lie starkly
in your image.

Thrusting my bare,
bruised arms
into the hot numbness
of your empty wings.
I beat them one last time
before rolling over
the white memory.

That Christmas, my snowman
melted,
leaving only a ring:
a very green promise
because December
is a long way from Spring.